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PIPES   OF   PAN 

BY 

BLISS   CARMAN 

Five  volumes  as  follows : 
Each  i  vol.,  doth)  net,  $7.00 

"          "    flexible  leather,        net,    zjo 

NO W  READY 

FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  MYTHS 
FROM  THE  GREEN  BOOK  OF  THE  BARDS 
SONGS  OF  THE  SEA  CHILDREN 
SONGS  FROM  A  NORTHERN  GARDEN 

IN  PREP  A  RA  TION 
FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  PIERROT 

L.   C.   PAGE   &   COMPANY 

New  England  Building 
Boston,  Mass. 


Number  One 

FROM   THE 

BOOK  OF  MYTHS 

BY 

BLISS     CARMAN 

AUTHOR   OF    "LOW    TIDE   ON 
GRAND  PRE,"  «  BALLADS  OF  LOST 
HAVEN,"  ETC.,  JOINT  AUTHOR 
WITH   RICHARD    HOVEY   OF 
"SONGS   FROM   VAGA- 
BONDIA,"    ETC. 

New  Edition,  with 
added  matter 


.      I  • 


L.C.PAGE  &  COMEANYl 

7/LDCCCC1V 


Copyright,  1894,  by 
STONB  &   KIMBALL 

Copyright,  1901,  1902,  by 
THB  Ess  Ess  PUBLISHING   COMPANY  (INCORPORATED) 

Copyright,  1901,  by 

THB  NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
(INCORPORATED) 

Copyright,  1903,  by 

HOUCHTON,    MlFFLIN  &   COMPANY 

Copyright,  1902,  by 
L.  C.  PACK  &  COMPANY  (INCORPORATED) 

Copyright,  1904,  by 
L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY  (INCORPORATED) 

A II  rights  reserved 


Published,  November,  1902 
New  edition  with  added  matter,  August,  1904 


To  C.  G.  D.  R. 

"For  my  heart  had  a  touch  of  the  woodland  time. 


The  Ghost  House, 

Twilight  Park  in  tht  Catskills, 

August,  7902. 


PREFACE 

IT  is  a  hearty  old  saying  that  "  Good  wine  needs 
no  bush."  Why,  then,  should  the  master  of  a  road- 
house  hang  out  a  sign,  letting  folk  know  there  is  good 
drink  within  ? 

Consider  the  feelings  of  the  landlord,  poor  man. 
At  once  nettled  and  abashed,  he  exclaims  : 

"  Pray  why  should  I  stick  a  bough  over  my  door  ? 
My  tavern  is  well  bespoke  for  miles  about,  and  all 
the  folk  know  I  serve  nothing  but  good,  honest  liquor, 
—  and  mighty  comforting  it  is  of  a  cold  night,  when 
the  fire  is  bright  on  the  hearth,  or  refreshing  on  a 
hot  day  either." 

"Nay,  but,"  says  the  stranger,  "how  should  a 
traveller  know  of  this  ?  You  must  advertise,  man. 
Hang  out  your  sign  to  attract  the  passer-by,  and  in- 
crease trade.  Trade's  the  thing.  You  should  be 
doing  a  driving  business,  with  a  cellar  like  yours." 


PREFACE 

"Huh,"  replies  the  taverner,  "I  perceive  that  in 
the  city  where  you  come  from  it  may  not  be  a  mark 
of  character  in  a  man  to  rely  wholly  upon  merit,  but 
that  if  one  would  ensure  success,  he  must  sound  a 
trumpet  before  him,  as  the  hypocrites  do,  that  they 
may  have  glory  of  men,  as  the  Word  says." 

"Tut,  man,"  says  the  stranger,  "look  at  your 
friend  John  Doe  under  the  hill  yonder.  Does  a 
wonderful  business.  Famous  all  over  the  country  for 
his  home-brewed  ale,  and  his  pockets  lined  with 
gold." 

"Yes,"  says  the  host,  "John  Doe  is  a  good 
thrifty  man  and  as  fine  a  comrade  as  you'd  wish  to 
find,  selling  his  hundred  thousand  bottles  a  year. 
But  the  gist  of  the  matter  between  us  isn't  all  in 
quantity,  I'll  be  bound.  Quality  is  something.  And 
as  for  myself  I  would  as  soon  have  a  bottle  of  wine 
as  a  keg  of  beer  any  day.  Wine  is  the  poetry  of  life, 
in  a  manner  of  speaking,  and  ale  you  see  is  the  prose, 
—  very  good  to  get  along  on,  but  no  sorcery  in  it. 
Three  things,  I  always  say,  a  man  needs  have,  — 
meat  for  his  belly,  a  fire  for  his  shins,  and  generous 
wine  to  keep  him  in  countenance  with  himself.  And 


PREFACE 

that's  no  such  easy  matter  in  a  difficult  world,  I  can 
tell  you.  'Tis  wine  that  gives  a  man  courage  and 
romance,  and  puts  heart  in  him  for  deeds  and  ad- 
ventures and  all  manner  of  plain  wholesome  love. 
And  that,  after  all,  is  the  mainspring  with  most  men, 
hide  it  how  they  may.  For  what  ever  was  done, 
that  was  worth  doing,  and  was  not  done  for  a  woman 
or  for  the  sake  of  a  friend,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  ' ' 

"  Maybe  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  says  the 
stranger.  "You  must  have  tasted  some  rare  wine  in 
your  time." 

"  Not  so  much,"  says  the  other,  "  but  I  was  born 
with  a  shrewd  taste  for  it,  you  may  say.  Moreover 
I  came  of  a  people  who  were  far  farers  in  their  day, 
and  have  been  abroad  myself  more  than  once.  So  it 
comes  you  find  the  foreign  vintages  in  my  bins. 
There's  some  Greek  wine  I  have,  sir,  that's  more 
than  a  century  old,  I'll  wager  ;  and  a  rare  Moon- 
wine,  as  they  call  it,  picked  up  in  an  out-of-the-way 
port,  that  will  make  you  forget  your  sorrow  like  a 
strain  of  music  ;  light  wines  from  France,  too  ;  and  some 
Heather  Brose,  very  old  and  magical,  such  as'  the 
little  dark  people  used  to  make  hereabout  in  the  times 


PREFACE 

of  the  Celts  long  ago,  —  and  very  good  times  they 
were  too.  It  is  not  these  days  that  have  all  the 
wisdom  ever  was,  you  may  be  sure." 

"You  are  not  such  a  bad  advocate,  after  all,"  re- 
marks the  stranger.     "You  speak  very  invitingly." 

"  Step  inside,"  says  the  landlord. 

BLISS  CARMAN. 

October  10,  1902. 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

PREFACE vii 

OVERLORD i 

THE  PIPES  OF  PAN 4 

MARSYAS 32 

SYRINX 41 

THE  MAGIC  FLUTE 54 

A  SHEPHERD  IN  LESBOS .  69 

DAPHNE 74 

THE  LOST  DRYAD 79 

THE  DEAD  FAUN 83 

HYLAS 91 

AT  PH^DRA'S  TOMB 94 

A  YOUNG   PAN'S  PRAYER 100 

THE  TIDINGS  TO   OLAF no 

THE  PRAYER  IN  THE  ROSE   GARDEN      .     .     .  123 


OVERLORD. 

irvtvfJa.   Kvpcov  CTT'  eyu,e. 

Lord  of  the  grass  and  hill, 
Lord  of  the  rain, 
White  Overlord  of  will, 
Master  of  pain, 

I  who  am  dust  and  air 
Blown  through  the  halls  of  death, 
Like  a  pale  ghost  of  prayer, — 
I  am  thy  breath. 

Lord  of  the  blade  and  leaf, 
Lord  of  the  bloom, 
Sheer  Overlord  of  grief, 
Master  of  doom, 


OVERLORD 


Lonely  as  wind  or  snow, 
Through  the  vague  world  and  dim, 
Vagrant  and  glad  I  go  ; 
I  am  thy  whim. 

Lord  of  the  storm  and  lull, 
Lord  of  the  sea, 
I  am  thy  broken  gull, 
Blown  far  alee. 

Lord  of  the  harvest  dew, 
Lord  of  the  dawn, 
Star  of  the  paling  blue 
Darkling  and  gone, 

Lost  on  the  mountain  height 
Where  the  first  winds  are  stirred, 
Out  of  the  wells  of  night 
I  am  thy  word. 


OVERLORD 


Lord  of  the  haunted  hush, 
Where  raptures  throng, 
I  am  thy  hermit  thrush, 
Ending  no  song. 

Lord  of  the  frost  and  cold, 
Lord  of  the  North, 
When  the  red  sun  grows  old 
And  day  goes  forth, 

I  shall  put  off  this  girth, — 
Go  glad  and  free, 
Earth  to  my  mother  earth, 
Spirit  to  thee. 


THE    PIPES    OF    PAN. 

"This  is  something  that  I  heard, — 
Half  a  cry  and  half  a  word, — 
On  a  magic  day  in  yune, 
In  the  ghostly  azure  noon, 
Where  the  wind  among  the  trees 
Made  mysterious  melodies, 
Such  as  those  which  filled  the  earth 
When  the  elder  gods  had  birth. 

Ah,  the  world  is  growing  old  ! 
Of  the  joys  it  used  to  hold, 
Love  and  beauty,  naught  have  I 
But  the  fragrant  memory. 

Once,  ah,  once,  (ye  know  the  story  !) 
When  the  earth  was  in  her  glory, 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Ere  man  gave  his  heart  to  breed 

Iron  hate  and  heartless  greed, 

Near  a  meadow  by  a  stream 

Quiet  as  an  ageless  dream, 

As  I  watched  from  the  green  rim 

Of  a  beech  grove  cool  and  dim, 

Musing  in  the  pleasant  shade 

The  soft  leafy  sunlight  made, 

What  should  gleam  and  move  and  quiver 

Down  by  the  clear,  pebbly  river, 

Where  the  tallest  reeds  were  growing 

And  the  bluest  iris  blowing, — 

Gleam  a  moment  and  then  pass, 

(Ah,  the  dare-to-love  she  was, 

In  her  summer-fervid  dress 

Of  sheer  love  and  loveliness  !) 

Wayward,  melting,  shy,  and  fond, 

Lissome  as  a  bulrush  wand, 

Fresh  as  meadowsweet  new-blown, 

Sandal  lost,  and  loosened  zone, 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Our  own  white  Arcadian 
Touched  with  rose  and  creamy  tan, 
Eyes  the  colour  that  might  fleck 
The  red  meadow  lily's  neck, 
Hair  with  the  soft  silky  curl 
Of  some  strayed  patrician  girl, 
Beech-brown  on  the  sunlit  throat, 
Cheek  of  tawny  apricot, 
Parted  lips  and  breast  aglow, — 
Who  but  Syrinx,  as  ye  know  ! 

Gone,  swift  as  a  darting  swallow, 
What  could  young  Pan  do  but  follow  ? 
(Have  ye  felt  the  warm  blood  leap, 
When  the  soul  awakes  from  sleep, 
At  a  glance  from  some  dark  eye 
Of  a  sudden  passing  by  ? — 
Known  the  pulse's  hurried  throb 
And  the  breathing's  catch  and  sob, 
When,  upon  his  race  with  Death, 

6 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Life  the  runner  halts  for  breath, 
Taking  with  a  happy  cry 
His  brief  draught  of  ecstasy  ?) 
Call  I  did,  with  only  laughter 
Blown  back,  as  I  hurried  after; 
Till  I  reached  the  riverside, 
Where  I  last  had  seen  her  glide 
In  among  the  reeds,  and  there 
Lost  her.     But  a  breath  of  air 
Moved  the  grass-heads,  going  by, 
And  I  heard  the  rushes  sigh. 

So  the  chase  has  always  proved  ; 
And  Pan  never  yet  has  loved, 
But  the  loved  one  all  too  soon 
Merged  in  music  and  was  gone, — 
Melted  like  a  passing  strain, 
Vanished  like  a  gust  of  rain 
Or  a  footfall  of  the  wind, 
Leaving  not  a  trace  behind. 

7 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


All  that  once  was  Pitys  stirs 
In  the  soft  voice  of  the  firs. 
Lovers,  when  ye  hear  that  sigh, 
Not  without  a  prayer  pass  by  ! 
And,  O  lovers,  when  ye  hear, 
On  a  morning  soft  and  clear, 
All  that  once  was  Echo  still 
Wandering  from  hill  to  hill, 
Breathe  a  prayer  lest  ye  too  stray, 
Lost  upon  the  mountain  way, 
And  go  seeking  all  your  lives 
Love,  when  but  his  ghost  survives  ! 

Then  a  swaying  river  reed 

From  the  water,  for  my  need, 

In  a  dream  I  blindly  drew, 

Cut  and  fashioned,  ranged  and  blew,- 

Such  a  music  as  was  played 

Never  yet  since  earth  was  made. 

Shrilling,  wild  and  dazed  and  thin, 

8 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


All  my  welling  heart  therein 
Trembled,  till  the  piping  grew 
Pure  as  fire  and  fine  as  dew, 
Till  confusion  was  untangled 
From  the  crowding  notes  that  jangled, 
And  a  new-created  world 
To  my  wonder  was  unfurled, 
Sphere  by  sphere,  as  climbing  sense 
Faltered  at  the  imminence 
Of  the  fragile  thing  called  soul 
Just  beyond  oblivion's  goal, 
And  creation's  open  door 
Bade  me  enter  and  explore. 

Slowly  hill  and  stream  and  wood 
Merged  and  melted,  for  my  mood, 
With  the  colour  of  the  sun 
In  the  pipe  I  played  upon. 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Slowly  anger  from  me  fell, 
In  the  coil  of  that  new  spell 
My  own  music  laid  on  me, — 
Like  the  great  rote  of  the  sea, 
Like  the  whisper  of  the  stream, 
Like  a  wood  bird's  sudden  gleam, 
Or  the  gusts  that  swoop  and  pass 
Through  the  ripe  and  seeding  grass,- 
Perfect  rhythm  and  colour  cast 
In  the  perfect  mould  at  last. 

Slowly  I  came  back  to  poise, — 
A  new  self  with  other  joys, 
Other  raptures  than  before, 
Harming  less  and  helping  more. 
I  could  strive  no  more  for  gain ; 
Being  was  my  true  domain, 
And  the  smiling  peace  that  ever 
In  the  end  outruns  endeavour. 
It  was  not  enough  to  do ; 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


I  must  feel,  but  reason  too, — 
Find  the  perfect  form  and  fashion 
For  the  elemental  passion  ; 
Else  must  blemish  still  be  hurled 
On  the  beauty  of  the  world, — 
Gloom  and  clang  and  hate  alloy 
Colour,  melody,  and  joy, 
And  the  violence  of  error 
Fill  the  earth  with  sound  and  terror. 

So  I  felt  the  subtle  change, 
Large,  enduring,  keen,  and  strange ; 
And  on  that  day  long  ago 
I  became  the  god  ye  know, 
Made  by  music  out  of  man. 
Now  ye  have  the  pipes  of  Pan, 
Which  ye  call  by  Syrinx'  name, 
Keeping  bright  a  little  fame 
Few  folk  ever  think  upon. 
Ah,  but  where  is  Syrinx  gone  ? 
ii 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


As  the  mountain  twilight  stole 
Through  the  woods  from  bole  to  bole, 
A  dumb  warder  setting  free 
Every  shy  divinity, 
I  became  aware  of  each 
Presence,  aspen,  bass,  and  beech ; 
And  they  all  found  voice  and  made 
A  green  music  in  the  shade, 

Therefore,  therefore,  mortal  man, 
When  ye  hear  the  pipes  of  Pan, 
Marvel  not  that  they  should  hold 
Something  sad  and  calm  and  old, 
Like  an  eerie  minor  strain 
Running  through  the  strong  refrain. 
All  there  is  of  human  woe 
Pan  has  fathomed  long  ago ; 
All  of  sorrow,  ail  of  ill, 
Kindly  Pan  remembers  still ; 
Disappointment,  grief,  disdain, 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Stifled  impulse  and  bleak  pain, — 

Pan  has  learned  them  ;  Pan  has  known 

Hurts  and  passions  of  his  own. 

Thus  Pan  knows  the  secret  hid 
Under  the  Great  Pyramid ; 
Why  young  lovers  for  their  love 
Think  the  stars  are  light  enough, 
And  they  very  well  may  house 
In  the  odorous  fir  boughs, — 
Think  there  is  no  light  of  day 
With  the  loved  one  gone  away, 
Use  in  life,  nor  pleasure  more 
By  the  hearth  or  out  of  door, — 
Since  all  things  begin  and  end 
But  to  glad  the  little  friend, 
And  all  gladness  is  forgot 
Where  the  little  friend  is  not. 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Thus  Pan  melts  your  human  heart 
With  the  magic  of  his  art. 
Yet,  O  heart-distracted  man, 
When  you  hear  the  pipes  of  Pan, 
Marvel  not  that  they  should  hold 
Something  sure  and  strong  and  bold, 
Like  a  dominant  refrain 
Heartening  the  minor  strain. 

Come  into  the  woods  once  more ; 

Leave  the  fire  and  close  the  door; 

Trust  the  spirit  that  has  made 

Musical  the  light  and  shade, 

Still  to  guard  you,  still  to  guide  you, 

Somewhere  in  the  wood  beside  you, 

Pace  for  pace  upon  the  road 

To  your  larger  next  abode. 

Though  the  world  should  lay  a  ringer 

On  your  arm  to  bid  you  linger, 

Ye  shall  neither  halt  nor  tarry 

14 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


(Little  be  the  load  ye  carry !) 
When  ye  hear  the  pipes  of  Pan 
Shrill  and  pleading  in  the  van. 
'Tis  the  music  that  has  freed  you 
From  the  old  life,  and  shall  lead  you, 
Gently  wise  and  strongly  fond, 
To  the  greater  life  beyond. 
Yet  I  whisper  to  you,  "  Stay ; 
That  new  life  is  here ;  to-day 
Is  your  home,  whose  roof  shall  rise 
From  the  ground  before  your  eyes." 

For  Pan  loves  you  and  is  near, 
Though  no  music  you  should  hear. 
Hearken,  hearken ;  it  will  grow, 
Spite  of  bitterness  and  woe, 
Clear  and  sweet  and  undistraught, 
(This  old  earth's  impassioned  thought,) 
And  the  sorry  heart  shall  learn 
What  no  rapture  could  discern. 

15 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


All  the  music  ye  have  heard  : 
Mountain  brook  and  orchard  bird ; 
Fifers  in  the  April  swamp, 
Fiddlers  leading  August's  pomp  ; 
All  the  mellow  flutes  of  June 
Melting  on  the  mating  tune; 
Pale  tree  cricket  with  his  bell 
Ringing  ceaselessly  and  well, 
Sounding  silver  to  the  brass 
Of  his  cousin  in  the  grass  ; 
Hot  cicada  clacking  by, 
When  the  air  is  dusty  dry  ; 
Old  man  owl,  with  noiseless  flight, 
Whoo-hoo-hooing  in  the  night; 
Surf  of  ocean,  sough  of  pine ; 
Note  of  warbler,  sharp  and  fine ; 
Rising  wind  and  falling  rain, 
Lowing  cattle  on  the  plain; 
And  that  hardly  noticed  sound 
When  the  apples  come  to  ground, 

16 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 

On  the  long,  still  afternoons, 
In  the  shelter  of  the  dunes  ; 
Chir  and  guggle,  bark  and  cry, 
Bleat,  hum,  twitter,  coo  and  sigh, 
Mew  and  belling,  hoot  and  bay, 
Clack  and  chirrup,  croak  and  neigh, 
Whoof  and  cackle,  whine  and  creak, 
Honk  and  chatter,  caw  and  squeak ; 
Wolf  and  eagle,  mink  and  moose, 
Each  for  his  own  joyous  use 
Uttering  the  heart's  desire 
As  the  season  bade  aspire ; 
Folk  of  meadow,  crag,  and  dale, 
Open  barren  and  deep  swale, — 
Every  diverse  rhythm  and  time 
Brought  to  order,  ranged  in  rhyme  : 
All  these  bubbling  notes  once  ran 
Thrilling  through  the  pipes  of  Pan. 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Think  you  Pan  forgets  the  tune 
Learned  beneath  the  slim  new  moon, 
When  these  throbbings  all  were  blent 
To  the  dominant  intent  ? 

All  the  beauties  ye  have  seen  : 
Autumn  scarlet,  young  spring  green ; 
Floating  mists  that  drift  and  follow 
Up  the  dark  blue  mountain  hollow ; 
Yellow  sunlight,  silver  spray  j 
The  wild  creatures  at  their  play ; 
Through  still  hours  the  floating  seed 
Of  the  thistle  and  milkweed, 
And  the  purple  asters  snowed 
In  a  drift  beside  the  road  j 
Swarthy  fern  by  pebbly  shoal ; 
Mossed  and  mottled  beech-tree  bole  ; 
Fireflies  in  a  dewy  net, 
When  the  summer  eves  are  wet ; 
All  the  bright,  gay-coloured  things 

18 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Buoyed  in  air  on  balanced  wings  j 
All  earth's  wonder ;  then  the  sea 
In  his  lone  immensity 
Only  the  great  stars  can  share, 
And  the  life  uncounted  there, 
Where  the  coral  gardens  lie 
And  the  painted  droves  go  by, 
In  the  water-light  and  gloom, 
Silent  till  the  day  of  doom : 
These  have  lent,  as  beauty  can, 
Colour  to  the  pipes  of  Pan. 

Think  you  Pan  forgets  the  key 
Of  their  primal  melody, — 
Phrase  and  motive  to  revive 
Every  drooping  soul  alive  ? 

All  the  wilding  rapture  shared 
With  the  loved  one,  when  ye  dared 
(Lip  to  lip  and  knee  to  knee) 

19 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Force  the  door  of  destiny, — 

Greatly  loved  and  greatly  gave, 

Too  divine  to  stint  or  save ; 

All  the  passion  ye  have  poured 

For  the  joy  of  the  adored, 

Spending  without  thought  or  measure 

Young  delight  and  priceless  treasure, 

Grown  immortal  in  the  hour 

When  fresh  manhood  came  in  flower ; 

All  the  ecstasy  unpent 

From  sweet  ardours  finding  vent 

In  the  coming  on  of  spring, 

When  the  rainy  uplands  ring, 

And  the  misty  woods  unfold 

To  the  magic  as  of  old ; 

All  the  hot,  delicious  swoon 

Of  the  teeming  summer  noon, 

When  the  year  is  brought  to  prime 

By  the  bees  among  the  thyme, 

And  each  mortal  heart  made  over 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


By  the  wind  among  the  clover : 
All  these  glad  things  ye  shall  find 
With  a  free  and  single  mind, 
Dreaming  eye  and  cheek  of  tan, 
Lurking  in  the  pipes  of  Pan. 

So  the  forest  wind  went  by, — 
Half  a  word  and  half  a  sigh, — 
On  a  magic  night  in  June, 
When  the  wondrous  silent  moon 
Flooded  the  blue  mountain  clove, 
And  the  stream  in  my  beech  grove 
Uttered  secrets  strange  and  deep, 
Like  one  talking  in  his  sleep. 

Would  ye  enter,  maid  and  man, 
The  novitiate  of  Pan  ? 
Know  the  secret  of  the  strain 
Lures  you  through  the  summer  plain, 
Guess  the  meaning  of  the  thrill 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Haunts  you  on  the  autumn  hill  ? 
Would  ye  too  contrive  a  measure 
Out  of  love,  to  fill  your  leisure  ? 
Learn  to  fashion  a  flute-reed 
That  should  answer  to  love's  need, 
When  the  spirit  in  you  cries 
To  be  given  form  and  guise 
Others  may  perceive  and  love, 
Fair  and  much  accounted  of, — 
Craves  to  be  the  tenant  heart 
In  some  wild,  new,  lovely  art, 
Such  as  haunts  the  glades  of  spring 
When  the  woodlands  bloom  and  ring  ? 

While  the  silver  night  still  broods 
On  the  mountain  solitudes, 
And  the  great  white  planet  still 
Is  undimmed  upon  the  hill, — 
Ere  a  hint  of  subtile  change 
Steals  across  the  purple  range 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


To  arouse  the  sleeping  bird, — 
Hear  the  wise  old  master's  word, 
When  he  leads  the  pregnant  notes 
From  the  reedy  golden  throats, 
And  the  traveller,  in  their  spell, 
Halts,  and  wonders  what  they  tell ! 

Here  is  Pan's  green  flower,  the  earth, 
He  has  tended  without  dearth, 
Brought  to  blossom,  fruit,  and  seed 
By  the  sap's  imperious  need, 
When  the  season  of  the  sun 
Sets  its  fervour  free  to  run. 
Sap  of  tree  and  pith  of  man, 
Ah,  but  they  are  dear  to  Pan  ! 
Not  a  creature  stirs  or  moves, 
But  Pan  heartens  and  approves  ; 
Not  a  being  loves  or  dies, 
But  Pan  knows  the  sacrifice. 
Man  or  stripling,  wife  or  maid, 

23 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Pan  is  ever  by  to  aid  ; 

And  no  harm  can  come  to  you, 

But  his  great  heart  feels  it,  too. 

Love's  use  let  the  joiner  prove 
By  the  fit  of  tongue  and  groove; 
Or  the  smith,  whose  forge's  play 
Stubborn  metal  must  obey  ; 
Let  the  temple-builders  own, 
As  they  mortise  stone  to  stone ; 
Or  the  sailor,  when  he  reeves 
Sheet  and  halliard  through  the  sheaves 
Or  the  potter,  from  whose  wheel 
Fair  and  finished  shapes  upsteal, 
As  by  magic  of  command, 
Guided  by  the  loving  hand. 

Ye  behold  in  love  the  tether 
Binding  the  great  world  together; 
For  without  that  coil  of  wonder 

24 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


The  round  world  would  fall  asunder, 
And  your  hearts  be  filled  with  sadness 
At  a  great  god's  seeming  madness, 
Where  they  now  have  peace,  and  hope, 
Somewhere,  somehow,  time  will  ope, 
And  the  loneliness  be  sated, 
And  the  longing  be  abated 
In  the  loved  one,  lovely  past 
All  imagining  at  last, 
Melting,  fragrant,  starry-eyed, 
Like  a  garden  in  its  pride, 
Odorous  with  hint  and  rapture 
Of  soft  joys  no  word  can  capture. 

Ah,  the  sweet  Pandean  strain  ! 
He  who  hears  it  once  shall  gain 
Freedom  of  the  open  door, 
Willing  to  go  back  no  more. 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


When  ye  hear  the  sea  pipes  thunder, 
Bow  the  loving  heart  in  wonder ; 
When  ye  hear  the  wood  pipes  play, 
Lift  the  door  latch  and  away ; 
When  ye  hear  the  hill  pipes  calling, 
Where  the  pure  cold  brooks  are  falling, 
Follow  till  your  feet  have  found 
The  desired  forgotten  ground, 
And  ye  know,  past  all  unlearning, 
By  the  raptured  quench  of  yearning, 
What  the  breath  is  to  the  reed 
Whence  the  magic  notes  are  freed, — 
What  new  life  the  gods  discover 
To  the  loved  one  and  the  lover, 
When  their  fabled  dreams  come  true 
In  the  wondrous  fair  and  new. 

For  the  music  of  the  earth, 

Helping  joy-of-heart  to  birth, 

(Field  note,  wood  note,  wild  or  mellow, 

26 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 

Bidding  all  things  fare  and  fellow,) 

Means  that  wisdom  lurks  behind 

The  enchantment  of  the  mind  ; 

And  your  longing  keen  and  tense 

Still  must  trust  the  lead  of  sense, — 

Hint  of  colour,  form,  and  sound, — 

Till  it  reach  the  perfect  round, 

And  completed  blend  its  strain 

With  the  haunted  pipes  again. 

Ye  must  learn  the  lift  and  thrill 

That  elate  the  wood  pipes  still ; 

Feel  the  ecstasy  and  shiver 

Of  the  reed  notes  in  the  river; 

Shudder  to  the  minor  trace 

In  the  sea's  eternal  bass, 

And  give  back  the  whole  heart's  treasure 

To  supreme  the  music's  measure, 

Glad  that  love  should  sink  and  sound 

All  the  beauty  in  earth's  bound. 


27 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 

All  this  loveliness  which  ran. 
Searching  through  the  pipes  of  Pan,- 
All  this  love  must  merge  and  blend 
With  Pan's  piping  in  the  end. 
All  the  knowledge  ye  draw  near 
At  the  ripening  of  the  year, 
Living  one  day  at  a  time, 
Innocent  of  fear  or  crime, 
(When  the  mountain  slopes  put  on 
Their  brave  scarlet  in  the  sun, 
When  the  sea  assumes  a  blue 
Such  as  April  never  knew, 
And  the  marshes,  fields,  and  skies 
Sing  with  colour  as  day  dies,) 
Peaceful,  undistracted,  free, 
In  your  earth-born  piety  ; 
All  the  love  when  friend  for  friend 
Dared  misfortune  to  the  end, — 
Fronted  failure,  flouted  harm, 
For  the  sake  of  folding  arm, — 
28 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 

Bravelier  trod  the  earth,  and  bolder, 
For  the  touch  of  hand  on  shoulder; 
All  the  homely  smiles  and  tears 
Ever  given  childish  years  ; 
Every  open,  generous  deed 
Lending  help  to  human  need ; 
Every  kindliness  to  age, 
Every  impulse  true  and  sage, 
Lifting  concord  out  of  strife, 
Bringing  beauty  into  life  : 
These  no  feeble  faith  can  ban 
Ever  from  the  pipes  of  Pan. 

Think  you  Pan  forgets  the  scheme 
Or  the  cadence  of  his  theme  ? 
Ah,  your  wit  must  still  discover 
No  mere  madness  of  a  lover, 
Headstrong,  whimsical,  and  blind, 
But  a  prompting  sane  and  kind, 
Scope  and  purpose,  hint  and  plan, 

29 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Lurking  in  the  pipes  of  Pan ; 
Calling  ever,  smooth  and  clear, 
Courage  to  the  heeding  ear; 
Fluting  ever,  sweet  and  high, 
Wisdom  to  the  passer-by; 
Sounding  ever,  soft  and  far, 
Happiness  no  grief  can  mar. 

This  enchantment  Pan  bequeaths 

Unto  every  lip  that  breathes ; 

Cunning  unto  every  hand 

Agile  under  will's  command ; 

Unto  every  human  heart 

The  inheritance  of  art, 

Lighted  only  by  a  gleam 

Of  the  dear  and  deathless  dream, — 

Power  out  of  hurt  and  stain 

To  bring  beauty  back  again, 

And  life's  loveliness  restore 

To  a  toiling  age  once  more. 

3° 


THE     PIPES     OF     PAN 


Yes,  the  world  is  growing  old, 
But  the  joys  it  used  to  hold, 
Love  and  beauty,  only  grow 
Greater  as  they  come  and  go, — 
Larger,  keener,  and  more  splendid, 
Seen  to  be  superbly  blended, 
As  the  cadenced  years  go  by, 
Into  chord  and  melody, 
Strong  and  clear  as  ever  ran 
Over  the  rude  pipes  of  Pan. 

So  the  music  passed  and  died 
In  the  dark  green  mountain  side; 
The  entranced  ravine  took  on 
A  new  purple,  faint  and  wan  ; 
And  I  heard  across  the  hush 
A  far  solitary  thrush 
From  the  hemlocks  deep  and  still 
Fluting  day  upon  the  hill. 


MARSYAS. 

In  Celaenae  by  Meander  lived  a  youth  once  long 

ago, 
And  one  passion  great  and   splendid   brimmed 

his  heart  to  overflow, — 
Filled  the  world  for  him  with  beauty,  sense  and 

colour,  joy  and  glow. 

Not  ambition  and  not  power,  love  nor  luxury 

nor  fame, 
Beckoned  him  to  join  their  pageant,  summoned 

Marsyas  by  name, 
Bidding    unreluctant    spirit    dare    to    keep    the 

soaring  aim ; 


M  ARS Y A  S 

But  the  sorceries  of  music,  note  and  rapture, 

tone  and  thrill, 
Sounding  the  serene  enchantment  over  meadow, 

stream  and  hill, 
Blew  for  him  the  undesisting  magic  call-note, 

followed  still. 

And  he  followed.     Heart  of  wonder,  how  the 

keen  blue  smoke  upcurled 
From  the  shepherd  huts  to  heaven  !     How  the 

dew  lay  silver-pearled 
Where  sleek  sided  cattle  wandered  through  the 

morning  of  the  world  ! 

On  a  stream  bank  lay  the  idler  dreaming 
dreams  —  for  it  was  Spring  — 

And  he  heard  the  frogs  in  chorus  make  the 
watery  marshes  ring; 

Heard  new  comers  at  their  nesting  in  the  vine- 
yards pipe  and  sing ; 

33 


M  A  R  S  Y  AS 


Heard  the  river  lisp  below  him ;  heard  the  wind 

chafe  reed  on  reed ; 
Every    earth-imprisoned    creature    finding    vent 

and  voice  at  need. 
Ah  !  if  only  so  could  mortal  longing  and  delight 

be  freed  ! 

Hark  !  What  piercing  unknown  cry  comes  steal- 
ing o'er  the  forest  ground, 

Pouring  sense  and  soul  together  in  an  ecstasy 
new-found  ? 

Dream's  fulfilment  brought  to  pass  and  life 
untethered  at  a  bound  ! 

Then  it  pauses,  and  the  youth  beyond  the  river- 
bend  perceives 

A  divine  one  in  her  beauty  stand,  half-hidden 
by  the  leaves, 

Fingering  a  wondrous  wood-pipe,  whence  the 
clear  sound  joys  or  grieves. 

34 


M  A  RS  Y  A  S 

As  he  looked,  entranced    and    musing   at  the 

marvel  of  the  strain, 
All  her  loveliness  uncinctured  with  a  madness 

touched  his  brain, 
And  love,  like  a  vernal  fever,  dyed  him  with  its. 

scarlet  stain. 

But  Athene,  glancing  downward  in  the  silver 

of  the  stream, 
As  she  fluted,  saw  her  perfect  mouth  distorted 

by  a  seam; 
Faltered,  stopped,  and,  disconcerted,  seemed  to 

ponder  half  in  dream 

For  a  rueful  moment ;  and  then  with  reluctance 

tossed  the  reed 
She  had  fashioned  in  a  happy  leisure  mood  to 

serve  her  need 
Back  into  the  tranquil  river,  nothing  but  a  river 

weed, 

35 


M  A  R  S  Y  A  S 

All  the  cunning  life  that  filled  it  quenched  and 

spilt  and  flung  away, 
To   go  seaward    to    oblivion    on    a   wandering 

stream.      But  stay  ! 
The  young  Phrygian  lad  has  seen  it, —  marked 

the  current  set  his  way, — 

Stooped  and  picked  it  from  the  water  ;  put  the 

treasure-trove  to  lip  ; 
Blown  his  first  breath,  faint  yet  daring  ;  felt  the 

wild  notes  crowd  and  slip 
Into    melody    and    meaning    from  each  testing 

finger-tip. 

Then,  ah,  then  had  mortal  spirit  sweep  and 
room  at  last  to  range 

The  lost  limits  of  creation  and  the  borderlands 
of  change, 

All  earth's  loveliness  transmuting  into  some- 
thing new  and  strange ; 

36 


M  A  RS  Y  A  S 


All  of  beauty,  all  of  knowledge,  all  of  wonder, 

fused  and  caught 
In  the  rhythmus  of  the  music,  weaving   out  of 

sense  and  thought 
And  a  touch  of  love  the  fabric  out  of  which  the 

world  was  wrought. 

And  the  joy  of  each  new  cadence,  as  the  glad 
notes  pressed  and  cried, 

Eager  for  the  strain's  fulfilment,  as  they  rose 
and  merged  and  died 

In  the  music's  utmost  measure,  filled  the  rose- 
grey  mountain  side, — 

Touched  the  sheep-bells  in  the  meadow,  moved 

the  rushes  in  the  stream, 
And  suffused  the  youth  with  glory  as  he  passed 

from  theme  to  theme ; 
Made  him  as  the  gods  of  morning  in  the  ampler 

air  of  dream. 

37 


M  A  RS  Y  A  S 

Ah,  what  secret,  what  enchantment    so  could 

help  the  human  need, 
Save  the  breath  of  life  that  lingered  in  the  hollow 

of  the  reed, 
Since  the  careless  mouth  of  beauty  blessed  it  — 

with  so  little  heed  ? 

There  he    stood,  a   youth   transfigured    in  the 

young  world's  golden  glow. 
Made    immortal    in  a  moment  by  the  music's 

melting  flow, 
Pattern  of  the  artist's  glory  for  the  after  years 

to  know. 

There  he  stands  for  us  in  picture,  with  the  pipe 

whereon  he  plays ; 
The   slow,  large-eyed  cattle  wonder,  and    the 

flocks  forget  to  graze, 
While  upon  the  hill  a  shepherd  turns  and  listens 

in  amaze. 

38 


M  A  R  S  Y  A  S 


In  the  woods  the  timid  creatures,  reassured, 
approach  and  peer, 

Half  aware  the  charm's  allurement  they  must 
follow  as  they  hear 

Is  the  first  far-looked-for  presage  of  the  banish- 
ment of  fear. 

Silence  falls  upon  the  woodland,  quiet  settles  on 

the  plain  j 
Earth   and  air   and    the  blue    heaven,  without 

harm  or  taint  or  stain, 
Are  restored  to  their  old  guise  of  large  serenity 

again. 

Thus  the  player  at  his  piping  in  the  early  mode 

and  grave 
Took  from  Wisdom   the    inventress  what   the 

earth  in  bounty  gave, 
And  therein  to  round  completion  put  the  beating 

heart  and  brave. 

39 


M  A  R  S  Y  A  S 


So,  you  artists  and  musicians,  earth  awaits  per- 
fection still ; 

Wisdom  tarries  by  the  brookside,  beauty  loiters 
on  the  hill, 

For  the  love  that  shall  reveal  them  with  the  yet 
undreamed-of  skill. 

Love    be   therefore   all   your   passion,  the  one 

ardour  that  ye  spend 
To  enhance  the  craft's  achievement  with  signi- 

cance  and  trend, 
Making  faultless  the  wild  strain  that   else  were 

faulty  to  the  end. 

Love  must  lend  the  magic  cadence  —  that  un- 
earthly dying  fall 

When  the  simple  sweet  earth-music  takes  us 
captive  past  recall, 

And  the  loved  one  and  the  lover  lose  this  world, 
nor  care  at  all. 

40 


SYRINX. 

Once  I  saw  (O  breath  of  Summer!)  in  the  azure 

prime  of  June, 
When  the  Northland  takes  her  joy  and  sets  her 

wintered  life  in  tune, 
The  soft  wind  come  down  the  river,  where  a 

heron  slept  at  noon; 

Stir  the  ripening  meadow-grasses,  lift  the  lily- 
pads,  and  stray 

Through  the  tall  green  ranks  of  rushes  bowing 
to  its  ghostly  sway; 

Then  I  heard  it,  like  a  whisper  of  the  world,  take 
voice  and  say: 


SYRINX 

"  Mortal  by  the  wood-wind's  murmur  and  the 

whisper  of  the  stream, 
I,  who  am  the  breath  of  grasses  and  the  soul  of 

Summer's  dream, 
Once  was  Syrinx,  whom  a  great  god  loved  and 

lost  and  made  the  theme 

"  Of  his  mournful  minor  music.     Nay,   I  who 

had  worn  the  guise 
Which  allured  him,  yet  eluded,  vanishing  before 

his  eyes, 
When   his   heart   held   lonely  commune,   taking 

counsel  to  devise 

"  Some  new  solace  for  sad  lovers  that  should  give 

the  spirit  vent, 
Lovelier  than  speech  of  mortals  where  the  stricken 

soul  is  pent 
And  the  longing  gropes  for  language  large  enough 

for  beauty's  bent ; 


SYRINX 

"  When  he  drew  the  reeds  and  ranged  them, 
rank  by  rank  from  low  to  shrill, 

Bound  them  with  the  flax  together  —  I  was  in- 
spiration still, 

I  was  heartache  crying  through  them,  I  was  echo 
on  the  hill. 

"  And    forever   I    am   cadence,   joyous,   welling, 

sad  or  fond, 
When   the   breath   of   god   or   mortal,   breaking 

time's  primeval  bond, 
Blows  upon   the  mouths  of  wood   and   all   the 

mellow  throats  respond. 

"  Not  a  flute,  but  I  have  hidden  in  its  haunted 

hollow  mould; 
In  the  deep  Sicilian  twilight,  when  the  shepherd 

piped  to  fold, 
I  have  been  the  eerie  calling  of  the  Pan  pipes 

rude  and  old; 


43 


SYRINX 

"  From  the  ivory  monaulos,  when  the  soft  Egyp- 
tian stars 

Sentried  Cleopatra's  gardens,  through  the  open 
window-bars 

I  went  forth,  a  splendid  torment,  o'er  the  dream- 
ing nenuphars. 

"  In   the  silver-mounted  laurel  played  by  some 

Byzantine  boy, 
I  was  frenzy,  when  the  throng  night  after  night 

went  mad  for  joy, 
As  the  dancer  Theodora  made  the  Emperor  her 

toy. 

"  In  the  boxwood  bound  with  gold  I  drew  my 
captives  down  the  Nile, 

To  the  love-feasts  of  Bubastis,  lovers  by  the  thou- 
sand file, 

Willing  converts  to  my  love-call,  children  of  the 
changeless  smile. 


44 


SYRINX 

"  Babylonian  Mylftta  heard  me  keep  the  limpid 

tune, 
When  the  lovers  danced  before  her  at  the  feast 

of  the  new  moon, 
Till  the  rosy  flowers  of  beauty  through  her  sacred 

groves  were  strewn. 

"  And  Sidonian  Astarte  and  the  Asian  Cypriote 
Knew  the  large  unhurried  measure  of  my  earth- 
sweet  pagan  rote, 

When  the  dancing  youths  before  them  followed 
me  from  note  to  note. 

"  Where  some  lithe  Bithynian  flute-boy,  nude  and 
golden  in  the  sun, 

Set  his  red  mouth  to  the  twin  pipes,  I  was  in  each 
pause  and  run, 

When  his  manhood  took  the  meaning  of  the  love- 
notes  one  by  one. 


45 


SYRINX 

"  And  amid  the  fields  of  iris  by  the  blue  Ionian 
sea, 

I  was  solemn-hearted  sweetness  and  pure  passion 
soon  to  be 

In  the  dark-haired  little  maid  who  piped  her  bud- 
ding melody. 

"  I  was  youth  and  love  and  rapture,  I  was  mad- 
ness in  their  veins, 

Calling  through  the  heats  of  Summer,  calling  in 
the  soft  Spring  rains, 

From  the  olive  Phrygian  hillsides  and  the  deep 
Boeotian  plains. 

"  I  but  blew,  and  mortals  followed ;  I  but 
breathed,  and  they  were  glad,  — 

King  and  mendicant  and  sailor,  courtesan  and 
shepherd  lad; 

For  there  is  no  creed  nor  canon  laid  on  music's 
myriad. 


46 


SYRINX 

"  Not  a  tribe  nor  race  nor  people  born  in  darkest 

savagery, 
Dwellers  in  the  Afric  forest  or  the  islands  of  the 

sea, 
But  I  wooed  them  from  their  war-drums  —  made 

them  gentle  —  set  them  free. 

"  Silence  fell  upon  the  tam-tams  throbbing  terror 

through  the  night, 
And  the  prayer-gongs  ceased  to  conjure  cowering 

villages  with  fright, 
When   my  cool  note,   clear  as  morning,   called 

them  to  a  new  delight. 

"  I,  the  breath  of  flute  and  oboe,  golden  wood 

and  silver  reed, 
Put  away  their  fear,  and  taught  them  with  my 

love-tone  to  give  heed, 
When  the  love  grew  large  within  them,  to  the 

lovely  spirit's  need. 


47 


SYRINX 


"  Henceforth  no  mere  frantic  rhythm  of  beat- 
ing foot  and  patting  hand, 

Nor  monotonous  marimba  could  suffice  for  soul's 
demand, 

When  Joy  called  her  wayworn  children  and 
Peace  wandered  through  the  land. 

"  Love  must  build  a  better  music  than  the  strum- 
ming tambourine, 

To  ensphere  his  worlds  of  wonder,  height  and 
depth  and  space  between, 

Pleasure-lands  for  Soul,  the  lover,  to  preempt 
as  his  demesne. 


"  So  he  took  the  simple  reed-note,  as  a  dewdrop 
clear  and  round, 

Blew  it  (magic  of  creation!)  to  the  tenuous  pro- 
found 

Of  sheer  gladness,  light  and  colour  of  the  universe 
of  sound. 


48 


SYRINX 

"  And  there  soars  the  shining  structure,  tone  on 

tone  as  star  on  star, 
Spheres  of  knowledge  and  of  beauty,  where  love's 

compensations  are, 
And   the  plenitudes  of  spirit  move   to   rhythm 

without  a  jar; 

"  Every  impulse  in  its  orbit  swinging  to  the 
utmost  range 

Of  the  normal  sweep  of  being,  through  un- 
fathomed  gulfs  of  change, 

Poised,  unswerved,  and  never  finding  aught  un- 
lovely or  unstrange. 

"  When  some  dark  Peruvian  lover  set  the  lov'e- 

flute  to  his  lip, 
I  was  the  new  soft  enchantment  loosed  upon  the 

dusk,  to  slip 
Through  the  trees  and  thrill  the  loved  one  from 

warm  nape  to  finger-tip; 


49 


SYRINX 

"  Till  she  could  not  choose  but  follow  where 
my  player  piped  for  her; 

So  I  roused  the  love  within  her,  set  the  gipsy 
pulse  astir, 

With  my  wild  delicious  pleading,  strong  as  in- 
cense, fine  as  myrrh. 

"  When  for  love  the  Winnebago  took  his  court- 
ing-flute  and  played 

His  wild  theme  for  days  together  near  the  lodge- 
door  of  his  maid, 

I  was  ritual  and  rapture  of  the  triumph  he 
essayed. 

"  And  my  brown  Malayan  lovers  pierce  the  living 

gold  bamboo, 
For  the  lone  melodious  accents  of  the  wind  to 

wander  through, 
While   my   haunting   spirit   tells   them   many   a 

secret  old  and  true. 


SYRINX 

"  In  the  soft  Sumatran  pan-flute  with  its  seven 

notes  I  plead; 
I  am  help  to  the  Marquesan  in  his  slender  scarlet 

reed; 
From  the  immemorial  East  I  draw  my  dark-eyed 

gipsy  breed. 

"  Chukma,     Dyak,     Mahalaka,     Papuan     and 

Ashanti, 
Hillmen  from  the  Indian  snows,  canoemen  from 

the  Carib  sea, 
Tribesmen  from  the  world's  twelve  corners,  at 

my  whisper  come  to  me  — 

"  All  the  garlanded  earth-children  in  their  gala 

bright  array, 
Laughing   like   the   leaves,   or   sighing   like    the 

grass-heads  which  I  sway; 
For  my  lure  is  swift  to  lead  them,  and  my  solace 

strong  to  stay. 


SYRINX 

"  And  the  road  must  melt  before  them  and  their 

piping  fill  all  lands, 
Till  a  new  world  at  their  fluting  like  a  magic 

flower  expands, 
And  Soul's  unexplored  dominion  is  surrendered  to 

their  hands. 

"Did  not  I,  the  woodbreath,  calling,  make  thy 
mortal  pulses  ring, 

And  thy  many-seasoned  roof-tree  with  its  dusty 
rafters  sing? 

Was  not  I  the  long  sweet  love-throb  in  the  music- 
house  of  Spring? 

"  Think  how  all  the  golden  willows  and   the 

maples  crimson-keyed, 
Kept  the  rare  appointed  season,  flowering  at  the 

instant  need, 
When  the  wood-pipes  gave  my  summons  and  the 

marshy  flutes  were  freed! 


SYRINX 

"  Love  be,  then,  in  every  heart-beat,  when  the  year 

comes  round   to  June, 
And  life  reaches  up  to  rapture,  lingering  on  the 

perfect  tune, 
As  this  evening  in  your  valley  silvered  by  the. 

early  moon." 

Thus  I  heard  the  voice  of  Syrinx,  by  the  dreamy 

river  shore, 
Sift  and  cease,  as  one  might  pass  through  a  large 

room  and  close  the  door; 
And  I  knew  myself  a  stranger  on  this  lovely  earth 

no  more. 


53 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE. 

Hear,  O  Syrinx,  thou  lost  dryad !  Marsyas,  thou 

mortal,  hear! 
If  to  lovely  and  free  spirits  it  is  granted  to  draw 

near 
And  revisit  the  whole  earth  from  some  far-off 

and  twilight  sphere, 

Like  the  limpid  star  of  evening  hanging  o'er  the 
dark  hill  brow, 

Globed  in  light  to  touch  this  valley  where  a  wor- 
shipper I  bow, 

O  give  heed,  and  of  your  wisdom  help  a  mortal 
lover  now! 


54 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Lend  him,  novice  at  your  flute-work,  learner  of 

the  magic  cry, 
Something,    howsoever   faulty,    of   that   cunning 

ecstasy,  — 
The  inevitable  cadence  where  the  raptures  pause 

and  die,  — 

You  could  marshal  at  your  bidding  from  the 
wind-blown  river  reeds,  — 

Mark  to  rhythm  and  mould  to  beauty,  —  plastic 
for  perfection's  needs; 

Skill  to  give  the  spirit  lodgment  where  the  long- 
ing fancy  leads! 

Souls  of  lovers  lost  in  music!     You  who  were 

beloved   of   Pan, 
Piping  madness  through  the  meadow  where  the 

silver  river  ran, 
You  who,  favoured  of  Athene,  found  her  careless 

gift  to  man,  — 


55 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


O  stray  hither,  and  recalling  some  such  earth- 
born  golden  hour, 

When  the  thrushes  eased  their  sorrow,  and  the 
laurel  was  in  flower, 

Give  this  last  lost  child  of  nature  one  least  pit- 
tance of  your  power! 

So  he  shall  be  well  accounted  love's  own  minstrel 

first  and  best, 
By  another  shy  wild  Syrinx  when  he  puts  the 

gift  to  test, 
For  a  single  day  immortal.    And  the  gods  make 

good  the  rest! 

Hear,  sweetheart,  the  lonely  thrushes!    Pure  and 

pleading   up   the   clove, 
From  the  dark  moon-haunted  hemlocks  and  the 

spacious  dim  beech  grove, 
Pierced  by  love's  own  silver  planet  with  a  path  for 

us  to  rove, 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Comes  the  rapture,  clear,  unsullied,  undistracted, 

undismayed, 
Heart   of  earth   that   still   remembers   how   her 

strength  and  joy  were  made, 
When  the  breath  of  life  was  given  and  the  touch 

of  doom  was  stayed,  — 

The  great  joyance  of  creation  welling  through 

the  world  once  more; 
Love  in  power  and  pride  and  passion,  crying  still 

at  beauty's  door; 
Soul  in  contemplation  ranging  the  star-lighted 

forest  floor. 

Once  .  .  .  O  little  girl,  lift  up  that  dear,  wild, 

tender  wood-nymph's  face 
To  your  lover's  who  so  loves  you,  gladdening 

all  this  leafy  place, 
Where  as  music  merged  in  moonshine  sense  and 

spirit  interlace! 


57 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


In  the  first  of  time  was  Hathor,  the  Egyptian 

Ashtoreth, 
She  who  bore  the  mighty   Sun   and   quickened 

nature  with  her  breath, 
Rocked  the  cradle  of  the  Nile  and  gave  men  life 

and  gave  them  death. 

Once  to  share  her  mysteries,  when  earth  grew 

green  with  spring,  there  came 
To  her  temple  in  Bubastis,  needy  and  unknown 

to  fame, 
A    young    herdsman     golden-haired    and    tall, 

Argalioth  by  name. 

And  his  undeflowered  beauty,  fair  as  lotus,  slim  as 

palm, 
With  his  voice  like  sweet  hill-water  sounding  in 

the  choric  psalm, 
Touched    the   mighty   heart   there    brooding   in 

inviolable  calm. 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


And  a  sigh  as  of  the  wind  arose;    the  song  was 

hushed ;    the  veil 
Of  the  Shrine,  which  none  might  enter,  moved 

and  shimmered  like  a  sail, 
Or  the  golden  boreal  lights  that  hang  across  our 

Northern   trail. 

In  astonishment  the  dancers  halted.  Then  the 
voice  said  "  Peace! 

Let  my  son  Argalioth  come  near.  It  is  a  gift  of 
peace. 

Henceforth  only  truth  and  goodness,  finding  vir- 
tue, shall  find  peace." 

Then  the  lad  arose  and  went  behind  the  veil,  and 

all  was  still. 
Slowly,  as  from  out  all  distance,  rising  far  and 

fine  and  shrill, 
Came  a  flute-note,  strong  as  sea-wind,  clear  as 

morning  on  the  hill,  — 


59 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Grew  and  gained  and  swelled  and  triumphed, 

lingering  from  tone  to  tone, 
Golden  deep  to  silver  treble,  pure  and  passionate 

and  lone, 
Marking  time  to  things  eternal,  touching  bounds 

of  spirit's  zone, 

Filling  all  the  space  between  with  all  the  wonder 

and  despair  — 
Reach  and  compass  and  fulfilment  soul  could  ever 

dream  or  dare  — 
Of  the  bliss  beyond  all  telling,  when  the  wild 

sense  grows  aware. 

Then  before  those  spellbound  watchers  from  the 
Holy  Place  returned 

The  youth,  girt  in  scarlet  linen,  with  a  counte- 
nance where  burned 

The  great  glory  of  his  vision  and  the  secret  he  had 
learned. 


60 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


In  his  hand  a  yellow  flute-reed  bound  with  seven 

silver  bands; 
From  brown  foot  to  red-gold  hair  a  figure  that 

might  haunt  all  lands 
With    distraction    and    enthralment,    while    this 

earth  in  beauty  stands. 

Not  a  word  he  spoke;   serenely  trod  the  marble 

to  the  door; 
Set  the  flute  to  mouth,  and  piping  strains  no  ear 

had  heard  before, 
Passed  out  through  the  golden  weather,  and  no 

man  beheld  him  more. 

Yet  there  lingered,  ah,  what  music!  Not  a  lis- 
tener in  that  throng, 

Through  the  years  that  came  upon  him,  but  at 
times  would  hear  the  long 

Piercing  and  melodious  cadence,  summer-sweet 
and  autumn-strong, 


61 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Heard  so  long  ago;  and  always,  as  if  musing,  he 

would  say, 
"  It  is  Hathor's  magic  flute.    In  some  blue  valley 

far   away, 
By  a  well  among  the  palms  her  wanderer  has 

paused  to  play !  " 

For  through  all  the  earth  he  wandered  with  his 

magic  pipe ;  and  none 
Heard  that  piping,  but  they  straightway  knew 

that  their  old  life  was  done, 
And  the  glamour  was  upon  them,  prudence  lost 

and   freedom  won. 

He  it  was  who  touched  with  madness,  soft  sweet 

madness  of  the  spring, 
The  green-throated   frogs,   whose  chorus  makes 

the  grassy  meadows  ring, 
And  the  birds  who  come  with  April,  and  must 

break  their  heart  or  sing; 


62 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Touched  his  fellow  mortals  even  with  a  madness 

of  the  mind, 
Till    they,   too,   must   rise   and    follow,    leaving 

sober  tasks  behind, 
While  a  thing  called  love  possessed  them  with 

a  craving  sweet  and  blind, 

And  they  knew  no  fear  thereafter,  save  the  one 
supreme  despair,  — 

Having  loved,  to  lose  the  loved  one,  the  one 
lovely  friend  could  share 

The  vast  loneliness  of  being.  What  mute  bitter- 
ness were  there! 

And  we  all  are  Hathor's  children,  brothers  of  the 

frogs  and  birds, 
Who  have  listened  once  forever  to  the  pipe  whose 

magic  words 
None  can  fathom,  though  we  follow  dumbly  as 

the  flocks  and  herds. 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Thenceforth  howsoe'er  we  wander,  all  our  care 

is  but  to  know 
Truth,  the  Sorceress  whose  spell  of  beauty  can 

entrance  us  so, 
As  it  was  with  happy  lovers  in  their  wisdom  long 

ago. 

And  to  all  men  once  a  lifetime  comes  that  music 
sweet  and  shrill, 

Pleading  for  the  life's  perfection,  good's  prefer- 
ment over  ill, 

Beauty's  issue  from  debasement,  the  deliverance 
of  will. 

Many  hear  it  not,  or  hearing  turn  with  heedless 

hearts  away, 
Or  their  soul  is  deaf  with  greed  or  lust  or  anger 

or  dismay, 
And  the  precious  fateful  moment  passes.     But 

the  wise  are  they, 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Who  preserve  without  disquiet  the  serene  and 
open  mind, 

The  impassioned  poise  of  spirit,  lodged  in  senses 
more  refined 

Than  the  quaking  aspen  breathed  on  by  the  un- 
seen secret  wind. 

So  in  spite  of  tears  and  turmoil  many  a  radiant 

hour  they  know, 
Hearing  o'er  the  roofs  of  men  the  far  off  magic 

woodpipes  blow, 
With  a  message  for  the  morrow  bidding  them 

arise  and  go. 

And  that  message?     What  I  cherish  most,  this 

sweet  white  night  of  June, 
When  from  sheath  of  fragrant  lace-work  slips  one 

shoulder,  like  the  moon 
From  the  pine-tops  with  a  lustre  such  as  made 

its  lover  swoon. 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Once  on  Latmus;    when  your  hair  falls,  like  a 

vine  the  stars  peep  through; 
When  I  kiss  your  heart  out,  much  as  mighty  Pan 

the  reed-pith  drew, 
And  your  breath  in  one   "  Beloved !  "   answers 

like  the  reed  he  blew ; 

What  I  prize  most,  and  most  treasure,  is  this 

knowledge  great  and  sure: 
He  who  knows  love,  knows  the  secret,  —  he  who 

has  love  has  the  lure,  — 
Of  the  strain  whereto  this  earth  wras  moulded 

well  and  must  endure. 

Hush,  ah,  hush!     Lie  still!     The  music  is  not 

yet  gone  from  the  firs, 
Haply  here  the  Ancient  Mother,  in  this  solitude 

of  hers, 
Where  the  mighty  veil  of  silence,  leaves  and  stars, 

the  hill-wind  stirs, 


66 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Some    new    larger    revelation    would    vouchsafe 

to  you  and  me 
Of  the  sorceries  of  summer  or  the  secret  of  the 

sea, 
Whose  sheer  beauty  shall  enthral  us  while  its. 

truth  shall  set  us  free. 

O  my  golden  Syrinx,  surely  we  have  heard  the 

magic  flute, 
Whose    dark    wild    mysterious    transport    in    a 

moment  can  transmute 
All   the  heart  and   life   forever,   making  spirits 

that  were  mute 

Musical  and  glad!     And  we  have  listened  to 

that  lost  flute-strain, 
Whose   long   sweet   and    sobbing   minor    is   the 

record  of  the  rain,  — 
Whose  proud  passion  is  the  gladness  when  the 

spring  comes  back  again. 


THE    MAGIC    FLUTE 


Hark,  the  thrushes  at  their  fluting!  The  old  wiz- 
ardry and  stress 

Of  entrancement  are  upon  them.  Wise  ones  of 
the  wilderness, 

Who  can  say  but  they  have  burdens  of  a  joy 
beyond  our  guess? 

Long  since   did   the  magic  minstrel   take   them 

silent  from  the  bough 
In  his  hands,  and  with  the  secret  breath  of  life 

their  throats  endow, 
As  this  rose-red  mouth  of  beauty  burning  meward 

I  do  now! 


68 


A  SHEPHERD   IN   LESBOS. 

All  night  long  my  cabin  roof  resounded 
With  the  mighty  murmur  of  the  rain; 
All  night  long  I  heard  the  silver  cohorts 
Tramping  down  the  valley  to  the  plain ; 

All  night  long  the  ringing  rain-drops  volleyed 
On  the  hollow  drum-heads  of  the  leaves 
In  a  wild  tattoo,  while  gusty  hill-winds 
Fifed  The  Young  Pans'  March  about  the  eaves. 

So  all  night  within  the  mountain  forest 
Passed  the  shadowy  forces  at  review; 
And  they  bore  me  back  to  time's  beginning 
When  the  wonder  of  the  world  was  new. 


69 


A    SHEPHERD    IN    LESBOS 

Then  from  out  the  gloom  there  came  a  vision 
Of  the  beauty  of  the  earth  of  old,  — 
The  unclouded  face  and  gracious  figure, 
Filleted  with  laurel  and  green-stoled, 

Such  as  Daphne  wore  the  day  she  wandered 
Through  the  silent  beech-wood  of  the  god, 
When  a  sunray  through  the  roof  of  shadows 
Wheeled  and  stole  behind  her  where  she  trod,  - 

When  the  loveliness  of  earth,  transfigured 
By  one  touch  of  rapture,  grew  divine, 
Ere  it  fled  before  the  unveiled  presence 
To  indwell  forever  its  green  shrine. 

Like  a  mist  I  saw  the  hair's  gold  glory, 
The  grave  eyes,  the  childish  scarlet  lip, 
And  the  rose-pink  fervour  that  afforded 
Soul  the  sheath  to  fill  from  tip  to  tip. 


70 


A    SHEPHERD    IN    LESBOS 

On  her  mouth  she  laid  a  warning  finger, 
And  her  slow  calm  enigmatic  smile 
Told  me,  ere  she  spoke,  one-half  the  message; 
Then  I  heard  (my  heart  stood  still  the  while), 

"  Mortal,    wouldst   thou   know   the   maddening 

transport 

No  mere  earth-born  lover  may  attain, 
Till  some  woodland  deity  hath  loved  him, 
And  her  beauty  mounted  to  his  brain  ? 

"  Thenceforth  he  becomes,  with  her  for  mistress, 
Master  of  the  moods  and  minds  of  men, 
Moulding  as  he  will  their  deeds  and  daring, 
All  their  follies  open. to  his  ken; 

"  Yet  is  he  a  wanderer  forever, 
Without  respite  seeking  the  unknown. 
Wouldst  thou  leave  the  world  for  one  who  offers 
But  the  beauty  bounded  by  her  zone?" 


A    SHEPHERD    IN    LESBOS 

When  I  woke  in  golden  morning  dyeing 
The  dark  valley  and  the  purple  hill, 
Flushing  at  the  doorway  of  the  forest, 
Flowered  my  mountain  laurel,  cool  and  still. 

How  I  chose?    Have  ye  not  heard  in  Lesbos 
Of  a  mad  young  shepherd  by  the  shore, 
Whose  wild  piping  bids  the  traveller  tarry 
Some  immortal  sorrow  to  deplore? 

On  a  morning  by  the  river  marges 
Many  a  passer-by  hath  heard  that  strain, 
Sweet  and  sad  and  strange  and  full  of  longing 
As  a  bird-note  through  the  purple  rain. 

In  a  maze  the  haunted  music  holds  them 
With  its  meaning  past  all  guess  or  care; 
With  its  magic  note  the  lonely  cadence 
Swells  and  sinks  and  dies  upon  the  air ; 


72 


A    SHEPHERD    IN    LESBOS 

And  they  say,  "  It  is  the  stricken  shepherd 
Whom  the  nymph's  enchantment  set  astray, 
And  the  spell  of  his  bewildering  vision 
Holds  him  fast  a  lover  from  that  day. 

"  His  dark  theme  no  mortal  may  interpret; 
But  forever  when  the  wood-pipes  blow, 
Some  remembered  and  mysterious  echo 
Calls  us  unresisting  and  we  go." 


73 


DAPHNE. 

I  know  that  face  ! 

In  some  lone  forest  place, 

When  June  brings  back  the  laurel  to  the  hills, 

Where  shade  and  sunlight  lace, 

Where  all  day  long 
The  brown  birds  make  their  song  — 
A  music  that  seems  never  to  have  known 
Dismay  nor  haste  nor  wrong  — 

I  once  before 

Have  seen  thee  by  the  shore, 

As  if  about  to  shed  the  flowery  guise 

And  be  thyself  once  more. 


74 


DAPHNE 

Dear,  shy,  soft  face, 

With  just  the  elfin  trace 

That  lends  thy  human  beauty  the  last  touch 

Of  wild,  elusive  grace  ! 

Can  it  be  true, 

A  god  did  once  pursue 

Thy  gleaming  beauty  through  the  glimmering 

wood, 
Drenched  in  the  Dorian  dew, 

Too  mad  to  stay 
His  hot  and  headstrong  way, 
Demented  by  the  fragrance  of  thy  flight, 
Heedless  of  thy  dismay  ? 

But  I  to  thee 

More  gently  fond  would  be, 

Nor  less  a  lover  woo  thee  with  soft  words 

And  woodland  melody ; 

75 


DAPHNE 

Take  pipe  and  play 

Each  forest  fear  away ; 

Win  thee  to  idle  in  the  leafy  shade 

All  the  long  Summer  day  ; 

Tell  thee  old  tales 

Of  love,  that  still  avails 

More  than  all  mighty  things  in  this  great  world, 

Still  wonderworks  nor  fails ; 

Teach  thee  new  lore, 
How  to  love  more  and  more, 
And  find  the  magical  delirium 
In  joys  unguessed  before. 

I  would  try  over 

And  over  to  discover 

Some  wild,  sweet,  foolish,  irresistible 

New  way  to  be  thy  lover  — 


76 


DAPHNE 

New,  wondrous  ways 

To  fill  thy  golden  days, 

Thy  lovely  pagan  body  with  delight, 

Thy  loving  heart  with  praise. 

For  I  would  learn, 

Deep  in  the  brookside  fern, 

The  magic  of  the  syrinx  whispering  low 

With  bubbly  fall  and  turn ; 

Mock  every  note 

Of  the  green  woodbird's  throat, 

Till  some  wild  strain,  impassioned  yet  serene, 

Should  form  and  float 

Far  through  the  hills, 

Where  mellow  sunlight  fills 

The  world  with  joy,  and  from  the  purple  vines 

The  brew  of  life  distils. 


77 


DAPHNE 

Ah,  then  indeed 

Thy  heart  should  have  no  need 

To  tremble  at  a  footfall  in  the  brake, 

And  bid  thy  bright  limbs  speed. 

But  night  would  come, 

And  I  should  make  thy  home 

In  the  deep  pines,  lit  by  a  yellow  star 

Hung  in  the  dark  blue  dome  — 

A  fragrant  house 

Of  woven  balsam  boughs, 

Where  the  great  Cyprian  mother  should  receive 

Our  warm  unsullied  vows. 


THE   LOST   DRYAD. 

Where  are  you  gone  from  the  forest, 
Leaving  the  mountain-side  lonely 
And  all  the  beech  woods  deserted, 
O  my  dear  Daphne  ? 

All  the  day  long  I  go  seeking 
Trace  of  your  flowerlike  footprint. 
Will  not  the  dew  on  the  meadow 
Tell  tale  of  Daphne  ? 

Will  not  the  sand  on  the  sea-shore 
Treasure  that  magical  impress 
For  the  disconsolate  longing 
Lover  of  Daphne  ? 


79 


THE     LOST     DRYAD 


Will  not  the  moss  and  the  fern-bed 
Bearing  the  mould  of  her  beauty, 
Tell  me  where  wandered  and  rested 
Rose-golden  Daphne  ? 

All  the  night  through  I  go  hearkening 
Every  wild  murmurous  echo, — 
Hint  of  your  laughter, —  the  birdlike 
Voice  of  my  Daphne. 

Why  do  the  poplar  leaves  whisper 
Things  to  themselves  in  the  silence, 
Though  no  wind  visits  the  valley, 
Daphne,  my  Daphne  ? 

Listen  !   I  hear  their  small  voices, 
An  elfin  multitude,  mingle, 
Lisping  in  silver-leaf  language, 
"  Daphne,  O  Daphne  !  " 


80 


THE     LOST     DRYAD 


Listen  !  I  hear  the  cold  hill-brook 
Plash  down  the  clove  on  its  pebbles, 
And  the  ravine  drenched  in  moonlight 
Echoing,  "  Daphne  !  " 

"Daphne,"  the  rain  says  at  nightfall; 
"  Daphne,"  the  wind  breathes  at  morning ; 
And  a  voice  troubles  the  hot  noon 
Uttering  "  Daphne. " 

Ah,  what  impassioned  remembrance, 
In  the  dark  pines  in  the  starlight, 
Touches  the  dream  of  your  wood-thrush, 
O  my  lost  Daphne, 

Dyeing  his  sleep  like  a  bubble 
Coloured  for  joy,  and  the  note  comes, 
Golden,  enchanted,  eternal, 
Calling  for  Daphne ! 


81 


THE     LOST     DRYAD 


O  Mother  Earth,  at  how  many 
Thresholds  of  lone-dwelling  mortals 
Must  I,  a  wayfarer,  tarry, 
Asking  for  Daphne  ?  — 

How  many  times  see  their  faces 
Fade  to  incredulous  wonder, 
Hearing  in  some  remote  vale 
The  story  of  Daphne, 

Ere  I  at  last  through  the  twilight 
Hear  the  soft  rapturous  outcry, 
And  as  of  old  there  will  greet  me 
Far-wandered  Daphne  ? 


82 


THE    DEAD    FAUN. 

Who  hath  done  this  thing  ?     What  wonder  is 

this  that  lies 

On  the  green  earth  so  still  under  purple  skies, 
Like  a  hyacinth  shaft  the  careless  mower  has 

cut 

And  thought  of  no  more  ? 

Who  hath  wrought  this  pitiful  wrong  on  the 

lovely  earth  ? 
What  ruthless   hand   could   ruin  that  harmless 

mirth  ? 
O  heart  of  things,  what  undoing  is  here,  never 

now 

To  be  mended  more  ! 


THE     DEAD     FAUN 


No  more,  O   beautiful  boy,  shall  thy  fleet  feet 

stray 
Through  the  cool  beech  wood  on  the  shadowy 

mountain  way, 
Nor  halt  by  the  well  at  noon,  nor  trample  the 

flowers 

On  the  forest  floor. 

Thy  beautiful   light-seeing  gold-green  eyes,  so 

glad 
When  day  came  over  the  hill,  so  wondrous  sad 

When  the  burning  sun  went  slowly  under  the 
sea, 

Shall  look  no  more. 


84 


THE     DEAD     FAUN 

Thy  nimble  fingers  that  plucked  the  fruit  from 

the  bough, 
Or  fondled  the  nymph's  bright  hair  and  filleted 

brow, 
Or  played  the  wild  mellow  pipe  of  thy  father 

Pan, 

Shall  play  no  more. 

Thy  sensitive  ears  that  knew  all  the  speech  of 

the  wood, 
Every  call  of  the  birds  and  the  creatures,  and 

understood 
What    the  wind    to   the  water  said,  what  the 

river  replied, 

Shall  hear  no  more. 


THE     DEAD     FAUN 


Thy  scarlet  and  lovely  mouth  which  the  dryads 

knew, 
Dear  whimsical  ardent  mouth  that  love  spoke 

through, 

For  all  the  kisses  of  life  that  it  took  and  gave, 
Shall  say  no  more. 

Who    hath    trammelled    those    feet  that    never 

again  shall  rove  ? 
Who  hath  bound  these  hands  that  never  again 

shall  move  ? 
Who  hath  quenched  the  lamp  in  those  eyes  that 

never  again 

Shall  be  lighted  more  ? 


86 


THE     DEAD     FAUN 


Who  hath  stopped  those  ears  from  our  heart- 
broken words  forever  ? 

Who  hath  sealed  that  wonderful  mouth  with  its 
secret  forever  ? 

Who    hath    touched    this  innocent  being  with 
pitiless  death, 

And  he  is  no  more  ? 

He   was    fair   as  a    mortal    and   spiritual   as  a 

flower ; 
He  knew  no  hate,  but   was  happy  within   the 

hour. 
The  Gods  had  given  him  beauty  and  freedom 

and  joy, 

Could  they  give  no  more  ? 


THE     DEAD     FAUN 


Is  all  their  wisdom  and  power  so  fond  a  thing  ? 
Must  he  perish,  nor  ever  return  with  returning 

Spring, 
But  be  left   like  a  dead-ripe  fruit  on  the  ground 

for  a  stranger 

Xo  find  and  deplore  ? 

They  have  given  to  mortal  man  the  immortal 

scope, 
The  perilous  chance,  unrest  and   remembrance 

and  hope, 

That  imperfection  may  come  to  perfection  still 
By  some  fabled  shore. 


THE     DEAD     FAUN 


Did  they  give  this  being,  this  marvellous  work 

of  their  hands, 
No  breath  of  the  greater  life  with  its  grief  and 

demands  ? 
Do    beauty  and   love  without  bitter   knowledge 

attain 

This  and  no  more  ? 

The  wind   may  whisper  to  him,  he  will  heed 

no  more; 
The    leaves     may    murmur    and   lisp,    he    will 

laugh  no  more; 
The   oreads   weep   and   be   heavy  at  heart  for 

him, 

He  will  care  no  more. 


89 


THE     DEAD     FAUN 


The   reverberant   thrushes   may   peal  from  the 
hemlock  glooms, 

The  summer  clouds  be  woven  on  azure  looms ; 

He  is   done  with  all  lovely  things  of  earth  for- 
ever 

And  ever  more. 


90 


HYLAS. 

Cool  were  the  grey-mottled  beeches, 
Quiet  with  noon  were  the  fern-beds, 
Where  by  the  bubbling  spring  water 
Tarried  young  Hylas. 

Whistling  a  song  of  the  rowers, 
Dipping  his  jar  till  it  gurgled, 
Suddenly  there  the  bright  naiads 
(Woe  for  thee,  Hylas!) 

Looked  and  beheld  his  fair  beauty 
Better  their  well-head,  and  straightway 
Exquisite  longing  possessed  them 
Only  for  Hylas. 


H  Y  L  A  S 

When  he  returned  not  at  sundown, 
"  Over  long,"  said  his  companions, 
As  slow  dismay  came  upon  them, 
"  Tarries  young  Hylas." 

Never  again  did  his  comrades 
Find  the  lost  rower,  nor  maidens 
See  from  their  doorways  at  twilight 
Home-coming  Hylas. 

Thenceforth  another  must  labour 
To  the  timed  thud  of  his  rowlock, 
And  only  legends  keep  tally 
Of  the  lost  Hylas. 

Yet  even  now,  when  the  springtime 
Verdures  the  valley,  and  rain-winds 
Voyage  for  lands  undiscovered, 
As  once  did  Hylas, 


92 


H  Y  L  A  S 


With  a  great  star  on  the  hill-crest 
In  purple  evening,  a  flute-note 
Pierces  the  dusk,  and  a  voice  calls, 
"  Hylas,  Hylas! " 


93 


AT   PH^DRA'S  TOMB. 

What  old  grey  ruin  can  this  be, 
Beside  the  blue  Saronic  Sea  ? 
What  tomb  is  this,  what  temple  here, 
Thus  side  by  side  so  many  a  year  ? 

This  is  that  temple  Phaedra  built 

To  Aphrodite,  having  spilt 

Her  whole  heart's  great  warm  love  in  vain, 

One  lovely  mortal's  love  to  gain ; 

Yet  trusting  by  that  fervent  will, 

Consuming  and  unconquered  still, 

In  spite  of  failure  and  of  fate, 

By  favour  of  the  gods  to  sate 

Her  splendid  lost  imperious 

Mad  love  for  young  Hippolytus, 

Whose  brilliant  beauty  seemed  to  glow 

94 


AT     PH^DRA'S     TOMB 


Like  a  tall  Alp  in  rosy  snow, 

While  love  and  passion,  wind  and  fire, 

Flared  through  the  field  of  her  desire. 

u  Great  Mother,  come  from  Paphos  now 

With  benediction  on  thy  brow, 

And  pity  !     Not  beneath  the  sun 

Lives  such  another  hapless  one. 

O  Aphrodite  of  the  sea, 

For  love  have  mercy  upon  me ! 

Give  me  his  beauty  now  to  slake 

This  body's  longing  and  soul's  ache  ! 

Touch  his  cold  heart  until  he  know 

The  divine  sorrow  of  love's  woe." 

What  madness  hers,  what  folly  his  ! 
And  all  their  beauty  come  to  this 
Epitome  of  mortal  doom  — 
A  name,  a  story,  and  a  tomb  ! 


95 


AT     PH^DRA'S     TOMB 


Have  ye  not  seen  the  fog  from  sea 
On  Autumn  mornings  silently 
Steal  in  to  land,  and  wrap  the  sun 
With  its  grey,  cold  oblivion  ? 

The  goddess  would  not  smile  on  her, 
On  him  no  gentler  mood  confer. 
He  still  must  flush  his  maiden  whim ; 
She  still  must  leash  her  love  for  him, 
A  fancy  lawless  and  superb, 
Too  wild  to  tame,  too  strong  to  curb, 
Too  great  for  her  to  swerve  or  stay 
In  our  half-hearted  modern  way. 

Have  ye  not  seen  the  fog  from  land 
Blow  out  to  sea,  and  leave  the  band 
Of  orange  marsh  and  lilac  shore 
To  brood  in  Autumn  peace  once  more  ? 


96 


AT     PH^DRA'S     TOMB 


So  there  survives  the  magic  fame 

Of  her  imperishable  name, — 

Light  from  a  time  when  love  was  great, 

And  strong  hearts  had  no  fear  of  fate, 

But  lived  and  strove  and  wrought  and  died, 

With  beauty  for  their  only  guide. 

And  yet  this  temple,  raised  and  wrought 
With  prayers  and  tears,  availed  her  naught. 
The  years  with  it  have  had  their  will  j 
Her  soft  name  is  a  by-word  still 
For  thwarted  spirit,  vexed  and  teased 
By  yearnings  that  cannot  be  eased, — 
The  soul  that  chafes  upon  the  mesh 
Of  tenuous  yet  galling  flesh. 

How  blue  that  midday  shadow  is 
In  the  white  dust  of  Argolis  !  .  .  . 
This  is  her  tomb.  .  .  .  See,  near  at  hand, 
This  myrtle !      Here  she  used  to  stand 

97 


AT     PHAEDRA'S     TOMB 


Those  days  when  her  love-haunted  eyes 
Saw  her  new-builded  hope  arise, 
Watching  the  masons  set  the  stone 
And  fingering  her  jewelled  zone, 
Or  moving  restless  to  and  fro, 
Her  pale  brows  knit  a  little,  so. 

Look  !  every  leaf  pierced  through  and  through 
I  doubt  not  the  gold  pin  she  drew 
From  her  dark  hair,  and,  as  the  storm 
Of  love  swept  through  her  lovely  form 
With  pique  and  passion,  thrust  on  thrust, 
Vented  her  vehemence.     O  dust, 
That  once  entempled  such  a  flame 
With  beauty,  colour,  line  and  name, 
And  gave  great  Love  a  dwelling-place 
Behind  so  fair,  so  sad  a  face, 
Where  is  thy  wilful  day-dream  now, 
That  passionate  lip,  that  moody  brow  ? 


98 


AT     PHAEDRA'S     TOMB 

Ah,  fair  Greek  woman,  if  there  bloom 
Some  flower  of  knowledge  in  the  gloom, 
Receive  the  piteous,  loving  sigh 
Of  one  more  luckless  passer-by. 
Peace,  peace,  wild  heart !     Unsatisfied 
Has  every  mortal  lived  and  died, 
Since  thy  dear  beauty  found  a  bed 
Forever  with  the  dreaming  dead, 
In  seagirt  Hellas  long  ago, 
Immortal  for  thy  mortal  woe ! 


99 


A   YOUNG   PAN'S   PRAYER 

0  pipes  of  Pan, 
Make  me  a  man, 

As  only  your  piercing  music  can ! 

When  I  set  my  lip 

To  your  reedy  lip, 

And  you  feel  the  urging  man-breath  slip 

Through  fibre  and  flake, 

Bidding  you  wake 

To  the  strange  new  being  for  beauty's  sake, 

1  pray  there  be 
Returned  to  me 

The  strength  of  the  hills  and  the  strength  of 
the  sea. 


100 


A     YOUNG     PAN'S     PRAYER 

0  river  reed, 

In  whom  the  need 

Of  the  journeying  river  once  was  freed, 

As  of  old  your  will 

Was  the  water's  will, 

To  quiver  and  call  or  sleep  and  be  still, 

So  now  anew 

1  breathe  in  you 

The  ardour  no  alchemy  can  subdue, 

And  add  the  dream, — 

The  immortal  gleam 

That  never  yet  fell  on  meadow  or  stream. 

I  breathe  and  blow 

On  your  dumb  mouth  so, 

Till  your  lurking  soul  is  alive  and  aglow. 

Ah,  breathe  in  me 

The  strength  of  the  sea, 

The  calm  of  the  hills  and  the  strength  of  the  sea! 


A     YOUNG     PAN'S     PRAYER 

Love,  joy,  and  fear, 

From  my  faint  heart  here, 

Shall  melt  in  your  cadence  wild  and  clear. 

With  freedom  and  hope 

I  range  and  grope, 

Till  I  find  new  stops  in  your  earthly  scope. 

The  pleading  strain 

Of  pathos  and  pain, 

The  diminished  chord  and  the  lost  refrain  j 

The  piercing  sigh, 

The  joyous  cry, 

The  sense  of  what  shall  be  bye  and  bye ; 

The  grief  untold 

Out  of  man's  heart  old, 

Which  endures  that  another  may  still  be  bold ; 

The  wiser  will 

That  foregoes  self-will 

And  aspires  to  truth  beyond  trammel  or  ill ; 


A     YOUNG     PAN'S     PRAYER 

Ambition  unsure, 

And  the  splendid  lure 

Of  whim  in  his  harlequin  vestiture  ; 

And  the  reach  of  sound 

Into  thought's  profound  j 

All  these  I  add  to  your  power  earth-bound ; 

But  most,  the  awe 

That  perceives  where  law 

Is  revealed  at  last  without  fault  or  flaw, — 

The  touch  of  mind 

That  would  search  and  find 

The  measure  of  beauty,  the  purpose  of  kind. 

So  with  the  fire 

Of  man's  desire 

Your  notes  shall  outreach  the  mountain  choir. 

Brook,  breeze,  and  bird 

Shall  hear  the  Word, 

And  know  'tis  their  master  they  have  heard. 

103 


A     YOUNG     PAN'S     PRAYER 

And  the  lowly  reed, 

Whose  only  need 

Was  to  sigh  with  the  wind  in  the  river  weed, 

Shall  be  heard  as  far 

As  from  star  to  star, 

Where  Algol  answers  to  Algebar. 

For  the  soul  must  trace 

Her  wondrous  race 

By  a  seventh  sense  on  the  charts  of  space, 

Till  she  come  at  last, 

Through  the  vague  and  vast, 

To  her  own  heart's  haven  fixed  and  fast. 

0  pipes  of  Pan, 
Whose  music  ran 

Through  the  world  ere  ever  my  age  began, 
When  I  set  my  lip 
To  your  woodland  lip, 

1  pray  some  draft  of  your  virtue  slip 

104 


A     YOUNG     PAN'S     PRAYER 

From  each  mellow  throat, 

As  note  by  note, 

A  learner,  I  try  for  the  secret  rote, — 

The  rhythm  and  theme 

That  shall  blend  man's  dream 

Of  perfection  with  nature's  imperfect  scheme  ! 

Blow  low,  blow  high, 

Your  haunting  cry 

For  me,  a  wayfarer  passing  by ; 

Blow  soft  or  keen, 

I  shall  listen  and  lean 

To  catch  what  your  whispered  messages  mean. 

I  shall  hear,  and  heed 

The  voice  of  the  reed, 

And  be  glad  of  my  kinfolk's  word,  indeed. 

I  shall  hearken  and  hear 

Your  untroubled  cheer 

From  the  earth's  deep  heart,  serene  and  clear. 


A     YOUNG     PAN'S     PRAYER 

Blow  cold  and  shrill, 

As  the  wind  from  the  hill, 

I  yet  shall  follow  to  learn  your  will ; 

Blow  soft  and  warm, 

As  an  April  storm, 

I  shall  listen  and  feel  my  soul  take  form. 

Blow  glad  and  strong, 

As  the  grosbeak's  song, 

And  I  mount  with  you  over  hurt  and  wrong ; 

Blow  little  and  thin, 

As  the  cricket's  din  ; 

But  my  door  is  wide,  and  I  bid  them  in. 

Blow,  blow  till  there  be 

Inbreathed  in  me 

Tinge  of  the  loam  and  tang  of  the  sea, — 

A  vagrom  man, 

Favoured  of  Pan, 

Made  out  of  ardour  and  sinew  and  tan, 

106 


A     YOUNG     PAN'S     PRAYER 

With  the  seeing  eye 

For  meadow  and  sky, 

The  want  only  beauty  can  satisfy, 

And  the  wandering  will, 

The  questing  will, 

The  inquisitive,  glad,  unanxious  will, 

That  must  up  and  away 

On  the  biave  essay 

Of  the  fair  and  far  through  the  long  sweet  day, — 

Of  the  fine  and  true, 

The  wondrous  and  new, 

All  the  warm  radiant  bright  world  through. 

Blow  me  the  tune 

Of  the  ripe  red  moon, 

I  shall  sleep  like  a  child  by  the  roadside  soon ; 

And  the  tune  of  the  sun ; 

When  our  piping  is  done, 

Lo,  others  shall  finish  what  we  have  begun. 

107 


A     YOUNG     PAN'S     PRAYER 

For  the  spell  we  cast 

Shall  prevail  at  last, — 

When  fault  is  forgotten  and  failure  past, — 

Prevail  and  restore 

To  earth  once  more 

The  lost  enchantment,  the  wonder-lore. 

And  I  must  attain 

To  the  road  again, 

With  the  wandering  dust  and    the  wandering 

rain, — 

A  sojourner  too 
My  way  pursue, 
Who  am  spirit  and  substance,  even  as  you. 

Then  give  me  the  slow 

Large  will  to  grow, 

As  your  fellows  down  by  the  brookside  grow. 

Ah,  blow,  and  breed 

In  my  manhood's  need 

The  long  sweet  patience  of  flower  and  seed  ! 

1 08 


A     YOUNG     PAN'S     PRAYER 

O  pipes  of  Pan, 
Make  me  a  man, 
As  only  your  earthly  music  can  ; 
And  create  in  me 
From  your  melody 

The  strength  of  the  hills  and  the  strength  of 
the  sea ! 


109 


THE   TIDINGS  TO   OLAF. 

This  is  a  question  arose  in  the  Norseland  long  ago. 
About  the  time  of  Yule,  the  season  of  joy  and  snow. 
To-morrow,  our  Christmas  Day,  can  you  answer 

straight  and  true, 
After  these  thousand  years,  when  the  question  comes 

to  you  ? 

Olaf  sat  on  his  throne,  and  the  priest  of  Thor 

stood  by ; 
And  the  King's  eyes  were  grey  as  the  December 

sky. 

41  Whom   shall    we  serve,  O  King  —  the   god 

of  thy  fathers,  Thor, 
Who  made  us  lords  of  the  sea,  and  gave  us  our 

land  in  war, 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  Who  follows  our  battle  flag  over  the  barren 

brine, 
Who  braces  the  bursting  heart  when  the  rowers 

bend  in  line, 

"  Who  hath  made  us  the  fear  of  the  world  and 

the  envy  of  the  earth, 
Whose  splendour  sustains  us  in  death,  who  hath 

given  us  plenty  for  dearth, 

"  Or  this  poor,  thought-ridden  Jew,  an  outcast 

whose  head  was  priced 
At  thirty  pieces  of  silver,  this  friendless  anarchist, 

Christ  ? 

"  Is  not  thine  empire  spread  over  the  Western 

Isles  ? 
Are  not  thy  people  sown  wherever  the  sun-path 

smiles  ? 


in 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"Do    there  not  come  to  thee  iron  and    gems 

and  corn  ? 
Does  not  thy  glory  blaze  wherever  our  trade 

is  borne  ? 

"  Over    the    red  sea-rim  thy    galleys  go   down 

with  the  sun ; 
Beyond    the    gates    of  the   storm   thy  written 

mandates  run. 

"  Behold,  new  lands  arise  to  the  lift  of  thy  dar- 
ing prows, 

And  health  and  riches  and  joy  prosper  thy  fir- 
built  house. 

"  Is  there  lack  to  thee  of  aught  the  strength  of 

thy  folk  can  give, 
When  the  will  and  the  longing  come  to  stretch 

out  thy  hand  and  live  ? 


112 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  Honey  and  fruit  and  wine,  are  they  not  piled 

on  the  board  ? 
Do  not   a  hundred    tribes  pay    tribute    to    our 

Lord  ? 

"  Olaf,  beloved  of  the  gods  !  Is  there  an  out- 
land  tongue, 

Is  there  an  isle  of  the  sea  where  thy  praise  has 
not  been  sung  ? 

"  Scarlet  and  silk  and  gold  gleam  on  thy  breast 

and  brow. 
Had  the  kings  of  the  earth  of  old  such  honour 

and  freedom  as  thou  ? 

"  Might  and  dominion  and  power  and  majesty, 

are  they  not  thine  ? 
Will  the  seed  of  warrior  kings   dishonour  the 

war-god's  shrine  ? 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  O  King,  do  I  speak  this  day  in  thy  name,  or 

forevermore 
Let  perish  the  ancient  creed  ?     By  thy  grace, 

is  it  Christ  or  Thor  ?  " 

Olafsat  on  his  throne.     And  the  Priest  of  Thor 

gave  place 
To  a  pale  dark  monk.     All  eyes  were  bent  on 

the  stranger's  face. 

"  O  King,  how  shall  I  speak  and  answer  this 

wisdom  of  eld  ? 
Yet  the  new  trees  of  the  forest  spring  up  where 

the  old  are  felled. 

"When  the  sombre  and    ancient  firs  are    laid 

in  the  dust,  in  your  North, 
The  tender  young  green  of  the  birch  and  the 

delicate  aspen  put  forth. 


114 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  Is  the  land  left  naked  and  bare,  because  the 

brush-fires  have  run  ? 
Ye  have  seen   the  soft  carpet  of  fern    spread 

down  where  the  blackening  was  done. 

"  With  beauty  God  covers  the  ground,  no  acre 

too  poor  to  befriend, 
That  thou  and  I  and  all  men  may  perceive  and 

comprehend. 

"  He  carries  the  sea  in  His  hand,  He  lights  the 

stars  in  the  sky, 
And    whispers    over   thy    soul  as  the  shadows 

move  on  the  rye. 

"  The  King  has  his  kingly  state,  but  his  heart  is 

the  heart  of  man, 
Swept  over  by  clouds  of  grief,  then  sunlit  with 

joy  for  a  span. 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  And  every  living  spirit    that  is   clothed  with 

flesh  and  bone 
Is  just  so  much  of  God's  being,  His  presence 

revealed  and  known. 

"  We  are  part  of  God's  breath,  as  the  gust, 
whereby  thy  hearth-fire  is  fanned, 

Is  part  of  the  wild  north-wind  that  rolls  the 
breakers  to  land. 

**  We  are  a  part  of  His  life,  as  the  waves  are  a 

part  of  the  sea, 
A  moment  uplift  in  the  sun,  then  merged  in 

eternity. 

"  What  is  it,  O  man  and   King,  that  stretches 

between  us  twain, 
Like  the  living  tides  that  gird  the  islands  of  the 

main  ? 


116 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  What  lifts  thy  name,  Olaf,  aloft  on  the  shout 

of  thy  folk  in  war  ? 
What  keeps  it  warm   by  the  hearth  ?     Is  it  the 

favour  of  Thor  ? 

"  No !     'Tis  the  love  of  thy  people,  the  great 

common  love  of  thy  kind, 
The  thing  that  is  old  as  the  sun  and   stronger 

than  the  wind. 

"  And,    Olaf,    all    these   things,    these    goods 

which  thy  priest  proclaims, 
That  make   thee  a  lord  among   men,  and  give 

thee  a  name  above  names, 

"  Are  gifts  of  the  spirit  of  love.     Take  away 

love,  and  thy  throne 
Melts  like  a  word  on  the  air ;  thou  art  a  name 

unknown. 


117 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  Is  the  King  heavy  at  heart,  and  no  man  can 
tell  him  why  j 

What  does  his  glory  avail  to  put  the  heavi- 
ness by  ? 

"  But  like  any  poor  nameless  man  among  men, 

the  mighty  King 
Is  heartened  among  his  folk  by  the  simple  love 

they  bring. 

"  Is  the   King  weary  in   mind,  and  none  can 

lighten  his  mood  ; 
What  cheers  him  to   power  anew  but  thought 

of  his  people's  good  ? 

"  To  love,  to  know,  and  to  do  !     So  we  grow 

perfect  apace, 
The  human  made  more  divine,  as  the  old  to 

the  new  gives  place. 


118 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

11  But  who  will  show  us  the  way, —  be  lantern 

and  staff  and  girth  ? 
Where    is    the  Light    of  the  World   and   the 

Sweetness  of  the  Earth  ? 

"  The  King  has  a  thousand  men,  yet  one  more 

brave  than  the  rest ; 
The  King  has  a  hundred   bards,  yet  one  the 

wisest  and  bestj 

"  The  King  has  a  score  of  friends,  yet  one  most 

accounted  of. 
And  now,  if  these  three  were  one,  in  courage, 

in  wisdom  and  love, 

"  There  were  the  matchless  friend,  whose  cause 

should  enlist  all  lands, 
Gentle,  intrepid,  and  true.     And  there,  O  King, 

Christ  stands. 


119 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  Freedom  and   knowledge   and  joy,  not  mine 

nor  any  man's, 
But  open  to  all  the  earth  without  proscription 

or  bans, 

"Where  is  the  bringer  of  these?      His  hand  is 

upon  thy  door. 
And  He  who  knocks,  O  King,  is  a  greater  God 

than  Thor. 

"  Olaf,  'tis  Yule  in  the  world ;  the  old  creeds 

groan  and  fall, 
The  ice  of  doubt  at  their  heart,  the  snows  of 

fear  over  all. 

"  But  now,  even  now,  O  friends,  deep  down  in 

the  kindly  earth, 
Are  not  the  marvellous  seeds  awaiting  the  hour 

of  birth  ? 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  Even  now  in  the  sunlit  places,  do  not  the 
saplings  prepare 

To  unfold  their  new  growth  to  the  light,  un- 
sheathe their  rich  buds  on  the  air  ? 

"  And   so,  from  the  dark,  sweet  mould  of  the 

human  heart  will  arise, 
To  enmorning  the  world  with   light   and   this 

life  emparadise, 

"  The    deathless,  young    glory    of   love.     And 

valley  and  hill  and  plain 
And    fields  and  cities  of  men,  they  shall  not 

sorrow  again. 

"For    there  shall    be    freedom  and    peace   and 

beauty  in  that  far  spring, 
And  folk  shall  go  forth  without    fear,  and  be 

glad  at  their  work  and  sing. 


THE     TIDINGS     TO     OLAF 

"  And  men  will  hallow  this  day  with  His  name 

who  died  on  the  tree, 
For  the  cause  of  eternal  love,  in  the  service  of 

liberty. 

"  O   King,  shall   the    feet   of  Truth  come  in 

through  thy  open  door, 
Or  alone  out  of  all  the  world  be  debarred  ?     Is 

it  Christ  or  Thor  ?  " 

The  King  sat  on  his  throne,  and  the  two  priests 

stood  by. 
And  OlaPs  eyes  grew  mild  as  a  blue  April  sky. 

Thus  were  the  tidings  to  Olaf  brought  in  the  early 

days, 
To  be  a  lamp  in  his  house,  and  a  sign-post  in  the 

ways. 
And  you,  O  men  and  women,  does  it  concern  you  at 

all, 
That  Truth  still  cries  at  the  cross-roads,  and  you 

do  not  heed  his  call  ? 


THE    PRAYER   IN   THE   ROSE 
GARDEN. 

Lord  of  this  rose  garden, 
At  the  end  of  May, 
Where  thy  guests  are  bidden 
To  tarry  for  a  day, 

Through  the  sweet  white  falling 
Of  the  tender  rain, 
With  thy  roses  theeward 
Lift  this  dust  again. 

Make  the  heart  within  me 
That  crumbles  to  obey, 
Perceive  and  know  thy  secret 
Desire  from  day  to  day ; 


123 


THE  PRAYER  IN  THE  ROSE  GARDEN 

Even  as  thy  roses, 
Knowing  where  they  stand 
Before  the  wind,  thy  presence, 
Tremble  at  thy  hand. 

Make  me,  Lord,  for  beauty, 
Only  this  I  pray, 
Like  my  brother  roses, 
Growing  day  by  day, 

Body,  mind  and  spirit, 
As  thy  voice  may  urge 
From  the  wondrous  twilight 
At  the  garden's  verge, 

Till  I  be  as  they  be, 
Fair,  then  blown  away, 
With  a  name  like  attar, 
Remembered  for  a  day. 


124 


mwm 
II  |i 
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•VII        « 
\  1 1..* 


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